


A Little Whisky Faith

by Yuliares



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: F/M, Hopeful Ending, Post-Canon, Tentative Overtures, Walk Into A Bar, soft angst, whisky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Booker walks into his bar and finds Andromache of Scythia perched at the counter.Booker shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find his balance. Is he supposed to avoid her? Turn back around the way he came? Does he simply pretend not to know her? He's still mulling it over when she turns and crooks her fingers at him, pulling him forwards as if on strings."Stop dithering and buy me a drink," she says.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	A Little Whisky Faith

It's been four years, two months and three days since his banishment began when Booker walks into his bar and jerks to a stop. There, under the lurid fluorescent lights, Andromache of Scythia is perched at the counter, long legs kicked out and sprawling.

Booker immediately snaps his head around, looking for - the arch of Nicky's nose, Nile's flashing smile, the inevitable scowl from Joe.

But he can't find them in the scattered, slouching crowd. There's just Andy, lean and languid in her black tank and those bloody tall boots that she insists on cobbling herself, stubbornly replacing each eyelet, sole, and leather panel one piece at a time.

He follows them back up to her bare shoulder, and the arm that curls around a glass of scotch, the fall of her eyelashes as she looks down at it.

It must be his French blood, he thinks. Always obsessed with royalty. 

She looks like a queen.

Booker shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find his balance. Is he supposed to avoid her? Turn back around the way he came? Does he simply pretend not to know her? He's still mulling it over when she turns and crooks her fingers at him, pulling him forwards as if on strings.

"Stop dithering and buy me a drink," she says. Behind her, there’s a TV garbling something, low enough to be a staticky background hum.

"Boss," he says, helplessly, but she grabs his arm, pulling him up short.

"No," she says, eyes steady, voice steel. "Not your boss anymore."

"Alright," he agrees easily, and she releases him to fall into the stool beside her. "So. What  _ should _ I call you?" he asks. Just to be sure.

She studies him out of the corner of her eye for a moment, before her lips - thin and chapped - peel back into a grin.

"Call me Andy," she offers, the tip of her tongue flashing behind her teeth, pale like bones, his own mouth a desert.

He knows the bartender, kid named Victor - plays guitar, on a 'break' from school that's going on four years, works most weekday evenings - and so Booker catches his eye and holds up a finger to order one of his usual.

He sees Andy hold up a finger as well, requesting a refill. Their drinks slide over at the same time, and he swirls the liquor around the glass, watching the ice cubes slide and collide before turning to face her fully. “What brings you to these parts?”

“Mm,” she says, and slides something across the counter at him. “You forgot something.”

It’s a convenience store plastic bag, crinkling loudly as he lifts one edge to look inside. Distantly, he’s glad for the plastic bag, protecting it’s contents from the counter, sticky beneath his fingertips.

" _ Don Quixote _ ," he says, strangled, and meets her eyes. It’s deja vu, another reunion, but this time there’s no sunshine. "First edition."

They stare at each other.

Booker folds the bag back up carefully, and edges it back towards her. “I don't deserve this.”

“I bought it for you,” says Andy, as if that settled it.

He supposes it does.

He stares at her and wonders if she's here between jobs. He wonders if Nile's taken his place when they march single file. He wonders who's going to take care of the C4, if Copley's holding up his end of the bargain. He wonders… a lot of things.

He doesn't ask, and she doesn't offer. He sips his drink.

“Spend the night with me,” says Andy, and slaps his back when he nearly chokes.

“The night?” he repeats, coughing.

“You know the area,” she says, confirming that she knew he'd be here. That she came to find him. It lights something up in him, makes him sit a little straighter. “We'll hit up all the bars,” she says. “Could go dancing, walk along the pier.”

“Sure,” he says, shoulders shrugging. “Right. Why not, sounds like fun. Lead on, boss- er, Andy. We can drink our way to dawn.” He waves a hand. “ _ Je paye ma tournée. _ ”

“I didn't say we'd be out  _ all _ night. We might find a room. Though you know I like things a little more adventurous.” 

He nearly chokes again as she laughs at him, eyes watering as he clears his throat roughly.

Andy reaches out, her hand warm and dry on his. He stares at it, tries not to lean into it, wonders why he’s pretending not to. He knows these hands, these sword callouses. He wants to feel their weight.

'“But - we'll see," she says, eyes searching his. "Where the night takes us.” 

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” he says helplessly.

Andy smirks, and tips her drink back, baring the long line of her throat. “I told you,” she says, leaning forward, empty glass thunking back onto the counter, close enough that he can feel her words in a rush of air against his stubbled cheek. Her breath smells like whisky. “Have a little faith.”

She leans back, and he nearly sways with her, a ship caught in the tide. 

“Finish your drink,” she says. “I'm gonna hit the restroom.”

“Sure,” he says, and pretends not to watch her weave away. The minute she's out of sight, Victor sidles over, whistling low and flicking his towel over his shoulder. Booker’s enough of a regular to take some shit, and Victor cuts him off before he gets too deep in his cups (when that happens, Booker just goes down two blocks to the seedy dive bar with the alleyway entry, where they let you drink as long as you can wave your money).

It’s probably the deepest connection he’s forged since parting ways with the team.

“How,” drawls Victor, “Does an alcoholic scruff like you have a woman like  _ that _ waiting for you at the bar?”

Instead of answering, Booker shoves the plastic bag into his pack, and hauls it up over the counter, slapping a crumpled paper bill alongside it. “Fifty bucks to watch this for me? I'll come back for it tomorrow.”

“What are you - oooohoho, you're getting  _ lucky! _ ” Victor winks lavisciously as he takes both the bill and the pack.

Booker waves a warning finger at him. “We're just friends. Don't go assuming anything.”

“Sure,” Victor lies. “Just friends, mhmm.  _ Damn _ . But seriously, she is out of your  _ league _ .”

Booker snorts and grins, lopsided.

“You have  _ no _ idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not the ship I thought I'd find myself on, but this scene just got stuck in my head and I hopped aboard for a quick jaunt. Thanks for reading!


End file.
